


Clothes Maketh the Man

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. Cross-dressing smut, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Maketh the Man

It has been a long, tiring day followed by a long, tiring night, and Gene, slumping wearily in his armchair, is immensely grateful for the glass of scotch that Sam hands him. He glances up at his DI and notes that Sam looks surprisingly perky considering he's been walking the streets for the past few hours - especially in those high heels. He still has them on, in fact, the bright red shade a stark contrast to the black of his fishnets. Sam has already abandoned the wig, whipping it off as they came in the door, complaining that it itched, and at some point must have taken off his sock-padded bra as his chest is now reassuringly flat.

He doesn't look remotely feminine any more; just looks like a bloke in women's clothing, and there's something about that odd combination that Gene finds unsettling and arousing in equal measure. He peers at Sam, busy pouring himself a drink, with a speculative eye.

"Come 'ere," Gene growls.

Sam glances up, his surprise at Gene's tone of voice shifting into a sly, knowing look. He comes, managing to move smoothly despite the high heels, and Gene's gaze slides lower to watch the way Sam's short skirt shifts over his thighs and crotch as he walks. Jesus. No wonder Tyler had so many offers earlier that night.

"On second thoughts, walk up and down."

Sam raises a mocking eyebrow but does as he's asked, with a slow, sensual grace, hips swaying in a manner that draws Gene's attention to his arse, still sheathed in a black tight-fitting skirt which shimmers with a satiny sheen as he moves. It's not so much a walk as a sashay, and Gene suddenly feels much more alert and energetic. Especially in the trouser department.

Above the waist, Sam's clad only in a red lacy camisole thing (of which Gene thoroughly approves), having already taken off the black see-through blouse he was wearing earlier. He's washed off the make-up - presumably why he was in the bathroom all that time - and looks like himself again, somewhat to Gene's relief. Sam is most definitely a man – no mistaking that – but Gene likes the way the thin red straps highlight the set of his shoulders and draw the eyes up to Sam's undeniably elegant neck, more visible now that he's not wearing the long blonde wig.

Gene rises to his feet, adjusting himself in his trousers, his eyes on Sam as he pivots neatly on one foot and turns to walk back. Sam comes to a standstill in front of him, his gaze direct and challenging, with just a hint of humour twitching around his lips.

That – that _smirk_ \- is too much for a red-blooded man to resist and so Gene doesn't; leaning in for a kiss which Sam returns with slow softness. The kiss deepens, all tongues and lips and teeth and stubble, and Gene, now fully erect, feels an answering hardness as Sam presses against him. Those heels are good for something, Gene thinks, as their hips align, almost at the same height. And it's good; so bloody good that Gene wants to slow this down, make it last despite the lateness and the fatigue of the day.

They draw apart, regarding each other. Sam's lips are reddened but it's not from lipstick this time, and the corners of his mouth are tilted up in that familiar, knowing, barely-there smile; humour and affection just under the surface. Gene winks and gives him his best filthy leer.

"How much for a fuck, darlin'?"

He sees the flare of surprise in the other man's eyes, and for a moment he thinks Sam is going to burst out laughing. But he manages to smother his grin and instead his chin comes up, a crafty gleam in his eye, and Gene knows he's slipping into character.

"Do you want the full works?" Sam asks, giving Gene's backside a suggestive squeeze.

Gene swallows. "What's that, then? You're going to have to spell it out."

"First I'll suck you," Sam leans closer and his words are slow and deliberate, almost teasing, "then you can fuck me up the arse."

"Yeah, that." Gene's voice is hoarse. "How much for that?"

"A ton."

"Bleedin' hell, Tyler, you might be overpricing yourself there!"

Sam rolls his eyes and steps back, folding his arms, waiting.

Cheeky bugger.

"All right, all right," Gene grumbles, "– you'd better be good, though."

"Oh, I am." The sly grin is back.

Gene takes a long look at Sam, starting at the stiletto heels and working his way slowly up the fishnet-clad legs to the tiny strip of skirt just skimming Sam's thighs. Slightly higher, and a prominent bulge is clearly visible at Sam's crotch, obscenely outlined by the sheer material.

He wonders what, exactly, Sam has on under that skirt. After a moment's consideration, he decides to find out for himself.

But first things first.

"Get on your knees, then, love."

"Yes, Mr. Hunt." Sam's reply is teasing rather than genuinely obedient, but Gene expects no less. The sight of Sam sinking to his knees and working at Gene's flies is enough to distract him, and the feel of Sam easing Gene's hard cock out of the confines of his trousers is enough to make him forget pretty much everything apart from his own name.

Sam has sucked him before, of course. This is something they do a lot of, both giving and taking, but there is something about this time – the way Sam manages to be both subservient and entirely in charge – that seems to heat Gene's blood more than usual, and he realises, as Sam works over his cock with an expert, familiar tongue, that he's in danger of coming far, far too soon.

Regretfully, Gene pulls away, his cock sliding free from Sam's mouth with a soft, obscene noise, and he pushes gently against Sam's shoulders.

"You're going to have to stop there or I won't get my full money's worth."

Sam looks up, face flushed, and gives him a cocky grin. "Let's be having you then, sir."

Gene helps him to his feet – not that Sam needs help, but balancing on those high heels looks tricky – and pulls him in for another kiss, messy and leisurely, Gene's bare cock rubbing maddeningly against the slippery fabric of Sam's skirt.

Finally, they pull apart, threads of pre-come clinging to the front of Sam's clothes as Gene draws back. Sam is panting slightly, much to Gene's satisfaction, and the mound of his crotch is straining the fabric of his skirt.

"What have you got on under that? Are you wearing any knickers?"

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "Why don't you find out?"

Slowly and deliberately, Gene places his hand on Sam's leg and draws it upwards, sliding across the mesh of his fishnets and slipping under the hem of the skirt to continue, rising until he finds a ridge of elastic – so they _are_ stockings – and halting there for a moment, toying with the stocking top and the strap of the suspender belt.

"Always suspected you were a filthy tart."

He slides his hand slowly up, across ridiculously soft bare flesh, finally finding a thin strip of something flimsy. No wonder Sam's erection is clearly visible: this scrap of material wouldn't contain anything.

"Have you been walking the streets like this?"

Sam lowers his eyes, biting his lip.

"I see." Gene grinds out. "So you like being a dirty prossie, eh?"

A pink flush colours Sam's cheeks.

"In that case, darlin', turn around."

Sam does as he's told with an eagerness that undermines any notion that Gene is in charge - absolutely bloody typical, Gene thinks with wry amusement. So he pushes Sam abruptly up against the back of the sofa, bending him over, pressing himself hot along the length of Sam's back. Sam moans, pushing back against Gene, his hips rolling. Gene leans closer to growl in Sam's ear.

"I'm going to take your knickers down and leave them round your ankles like the cheap tart you are."

The faint aroma of cheap perfume does nothing to mask the sweat and musk, and Gene inhales deeply, drawing the familiar scent into his lungs.

"Then I'm going to hitch your skirt up round your waist – not that that will take much doing, considering how short it is, you dirty little bitch – and I'm going to give you the rogering of your life, right here, you bent over the sofa, still wearing those stockings and suspenders, and you're going to beg me for more, do you understand me?"

"Yes!" Sam gasps out, muscles flexing as he tries to brace himself in his constrained position.

Fumbling at Sam's thigh, Gene works his hand up Sam's skirt and hooks his thumb over the fine strip of fabric that passes for his knickers, pulling them down slowly, pausing for a moment as they snag on Sam's erection. He manages to stretch them over Sam's cock and down past his balls with only the barest brush of his fingers against Tyler's sensitive skin, but that's enough to provoke a sharp intake of breath.

Gene smoothes his hand down over Sam's hip and thigh, taking the time to savour the softness of his skin against the open weave of his fishnet stockings, as he pushes the knickers down until they're loose enough to drop to the floor.

"Stay there," he growls in Sam's ear, giving him a firm push between his shoulder blades before stepping back and sinking to his knees.

Sam's calf muscles are stretched and quivering with the strain of the high heels and Gene feels a surge of arousal at seeing all that sinewy strength holding itself still for him. With gentle hands, he rubs Sam's right calf, slowly massaging the muscle until the tension eases, then he turns his attention to the other leg, repeating the motions until he feels Sam unwind beneath his touch.

Sam makes a low sound, somewhere between a moan and a purr, and Gene judges that he's relaxed enough so he takes hold of one ankle and pushes Sam's foot gently, forcing him to spread his legs as far as the skirt will allow. The knickers – really nothing more than a tiny scrap of red lacy material - are now hooked around his ankles, and Gene can see the dampness on them from Sam's cock. Bloody hell.

He rises somewhat unsteadily to his feet and takes a deep breath before moving in to place his hands on Sam's thighs just below the hem of the skirt.

"Might as well not have bothered with knickers at all," Gene murmurs. "Seeing as how they wouldn't cover a postage stamp." He leans closer, his cock pressing firmly against Sam's bottom, to growl in his ear. "Besides, I've heard they spend more time round your ankles than covering your arse."

Sam gives a gasp, seeming to have momentarily lost the power of speech as he squirms beneath him, and Gene pulls back a little, regretting the loss of bodily contact even as he savours the view of Sam's pale neck and back, one lacy strap having slipped off one shoulder.

"Now, then, let's see what we've got under here, you dirty girl."

Gene inches his hands upwards, under the hem of the skirt, hitching it up bit by bit, slowly revealing the back of Sam's pale thighs. He pauses for a moment, his thumbs just resting in the crease between leg and buttock, as he savours the sound of Sam's breathing, heavy in the silence of the living room.

And it's working, despite the insistence of his erection; making it last, drawing things out. Then Sam shifts ever so slightly, hips tilting to expose his backside further, and Gene's thumbs edge towards the cleft between his cheeks, moving slowly, dipping in until they're brushing against Sam's furled opening. Gene is just wondering where the pot of vaseline is, when he realises that his thumbs are slick, moving with no resistance against Sam's flesh.

"Christ..." he groans, "...you're ready for me."

Sam gives a breathy laugh. "Sorry to disappoint you, love, but you're not my first punter tonight." He wiggles his backside - bloody tease.

"Is that so?" Gene pushes two fingers into him, slowly and steadily, feeling Sam's body give way easily around them.

"I've got a living to make. And as you so delicately put it: not much need for knickers in my line of work." Sam's breath hitches a little at the pressure of Gene's fingers, but he manages to sound level, matter-of-fact. Well, two can play at that game.

"How many blokes have had you tonight, then? Two? Three? I saw that fella in the brown jacket get his hand up your skirt, so don't think I don't know what a tart you are." Gene moves his fingers slowly, twisting them, opening Sam up.

"I know – I saw you watching me. Waiting to make your move, eh, Mr. Hunt?"

"Did he do this, that bloke? Did he get his dirty fingers inside you?"

"No." It sounds like a moan, and Sam takes a deep breath before he continues. "He tried – but he wouldn't pay the going price."

"Hmpf. Plenty more where he came from – I saw them all sniffing around you, like dogs round a bitch in heat."

Sam gives a breathy laugh. "That was nothing. Shame you missed all the action earlier, when I was out working behind the train station."

Gene blinks. The train station hadn't been on tonight's itinerary.

"What...?"

"Gave a bloke a blow-job."

Gene adds another finger, pushing deeper. "Why's your arse all slick, then?"

"Because then his mate turned up."

"You _what_?" Gene stills, suddenly aware that his cock is throbbing almost painfully.

"His mate." Sam gasps. "They paid extra to have me at the same time." Despite his awkward position Sam manages to roll his hips, as though seeking more sensation from Gene's unmoving fingers.

"Bloody hell, Tyler!" Gene pulls his fingers free and lurches unsteadily back, grappling with his belt to yank his trousers and underwear down, out of the way.

"Yeah, one in either end," Sam is saying, sounding breathless. "Spit-roast."

"Filthy little tart!" Gene growls, taking his cock in one hand and groping at Sam's arse with the other, lining himself up. With no further warning Gene enters him, driving himself home in one long thrust, his fingers digging hard into Sam's hips.

"Oh, God, _yes_." Sam's hoarse words echo Gene's thoughts.

So much for taking it slowly. Because he's too far gone; they both are, and there won't be any finesse tonight, Gene thinks, pumping his hips, focussing on the sound of panting and the slap of flesh on flesh.

The heels give Sam extra height and Gene relishes the sensations, the different angle, the ease of the rhythm they've slipped into; knowing from Sam's moans that he's hitting just the right spot inside him on every stroke. And _bloody hell_ it's good; with Sam hot and tight and pinned under him, the skirt hitched up round his waist, and Gene can see the patch of sweat gathering in the small of his back, turning the camisole a darker shade of red.

It feels as though the frustrations of the day have been building to this, and Gene knows the pressure is going to burst very soon so he reaches around Sam's hips intending to give him a hand but just manages to interlace his finger's with Sam's, wrapping around Sam's cock, in time to feel him come in hot, strong pulses.

And that's pretty much it for Gene. A few more stuttering thrusts and he's there, his eyes squeezing shut as he empties himself long and hard into Sam's clenching embrace.

***

"Didn't know you had a thing for cross-dressing," Gene says, lighting a cigarette and settling to lean on the back of the sofa.

Sam snorts, shifting into a sitting position alongside Gene, their shoulders brushing. "It has a certain novelty appeal. But I don't plan on doing this too often - these things are bloody killing me." He kicks off his shoes with a vindictive relish. "Anyway, I could say the same to you."

"It's not the clothes, Sammy-boy." Gene exhales, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling. "It's who's in them."

"Right. So you _weren't_ oggling my legs earlier, then?"

"Certainly not. It was professional interest. We were trying to flush out that perv Hodges and I was simply checking that you looked the part."

"Hmm. I wasn't, though, was I, 'cos he didn't show."

Gene shrugs, his shoulder pressing warmly into Sam's. "It was a long shot, anyway."

"I suppose so." Sam sighs. "I could try again tomorrow night..."

"Not in that outfit, Gladys." Gene gestures at Sam, and Sam looks down at himself, taking in his own stained and dishevelled state.

"Ah. Maybe not."

Gene pats one stocking-clad knee. "Never mind. It was a good idea, as things turned out."

Sam grunts a reply and heaves himself, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet. He pulls at his skirt, still concertinaed around his waist, and finally manages to strip it off, holding it out between thumb and forefinger like a five-day-old kipper.

"Urgh. I need a bath. You coming?"

"Mmm." Gene clears his throat, leaning over to the ashtry to stub out his fag end. "Just one thing, Tyler - you _did_ have something else on under that when you were out undercover, didn't you?"

Sam smirks and raises a saucy eyebrow, pausing for a long moment before cracking into a grin. "Yeah, of course I did. Briefs. You know - normal ones. Two pairs, just to be on the safe side. Changed up in the bathroom when we got in." He turns towards the door but Gene speaks again.

"And the bloke in the brown jacket?"

Sam sighs, sounding somewhere between exasperated and affectionate. He walks back to Gene, sticking out his hand to help haul him up.

"Won't be groping anyone anytime soon, don't worry."

"Hope you broke his fingers."

"Nah - just dislocated them."

Gene, following Sam out of the room, can't resist giving his bare backside a pat.

"That's my girl."

Sam doesn't break stride. "You did hear what I just said about fingers, didn't you?"

They head upstairs, carrying their discarded clothes and glasses of scotch with them.

"And if you _ever_ want to see me in a skirt again," Sam is saying, "you'd better knock it off with the 'girl' comments."

Gene, thinking about a hot bath and a good night's sleep with Sam by his side, just smiles.

 

***

END

***


End file.
